Death Becomes Him
by Degonda
Summary: [Sequel to The Guilty Party] As John and Dean deal with Sam’s death, a hunter ignores the rules and takes the Winchester’s situation into his own hands.
1. Return to Normal

**Death Becomes Him**

Summery: Sequel to The Guilty Party As John and Dean deal with Sam's death, a hunter ignores the rules and takes the Winchester's situation into his own hands.

Disclaimer: Come on. If I owned Supernatural, I would be writing the episodes, not fan fiction.

_Author's Note: Due to requests, here is the continuing story. I originally was going to continue the storyline in The Guilty Party, but decided this is a whole different story. You pretty much have to read Guilty Party to understand what's going on because I'm not going to rehash a lot. So enjoy and please review!_

**Chapter One: Return to Normal**

John stared down into the grave, the fire reflecting in his eyes. A trail of sweat broke through the grit on his forehead. His hand reached up, wiping the bit of liquid off his nose before it could drip off.

The hunt had been tough. Normally, ghosts are an easy job. Slam, bam, you're dead again ma'am. This one had a bit of fight left in him; apparently a teenage boy had been locked in a closet by his grandmother in the early 20s and died there. His spirit decided to take his frustration out on every teenager who lived in the house, locking them in the hidden basement closet until they too starved to death. _Not many worse ways to die than that,_ John grimaced.

Glancing to his left, he watched Dean, shadows dancing across his face. The spirit hadn't been kind on him; a small trail of blood trickled down from his temple where his head had a short confrontation with a tree. John took in his clenched jaw, the vacant look in his eye, the deep shadows in his cheeks.

It had been a long four months for Dean. Between physical therapy for his back and dealing with Sam's death, John never felt like he was one hundred percent sure how Dean was feeling. If he was actually healing or simply bottling it up inside, not wanting to deal with it. John knew what that was like; until recently, he had never allowed himself to cry for Mary. But seeing her again, knowing she was with Sam, somehow it allowed him to let go. But Dean would never let go. He couldn't. Not after… everything.

"Stop staring Dad."

John blinked, caught completely unaware by Dean's piercing eyes. Dean stared at his father, his lips in a tight line. An accusation was obvious in his eyes, almost daring John to say anything. "We done here?"

John blinked again. Dean knew very well they were finished, the job complete. Hell, by now Dean was pretty much as good a hunter as John. But somewhere deep inside him, Dean still needed to hear John's dismissal. He needed to know he could leave.

"Yeah, Dean. We're done here."

"Good." Dean turned his back on the fire, bent down to grab the now empty shotgun and the shovel. Without turning back, he started the walk out of the cemetery to the street, where John's truck stood waiting.

John watched his son walked up to the truck and hopped into the front seat, waiting. He turned back to the fire. His eyes were beginning to burn, but it wasn't because of the smoke. This was their lives now. They ate, slept, hunted, and repeated. All without saying a single word more than necessary. John shook his head, clearing his eyes. _I didn't want this; I don't want a son who was ripping himself apart. I don't want my youngest to be dead. I don't want to blame Dean._

John glanced again at Dean sitting in the truck. He was holding his head, obviously caught up in his own mind. John breathed a sigh. Turning one last time to the burning grave, John repeated the words he thought after every hunt, after every job.

_Wish you were here Sam. I love you._ With that, he turned to his remaining son.

…………………………………….

"Good." Dean bent down to grab the shotgun, clenching his jaw as a low pain burned across his back. Keeping his head low, Dean quickly walked away. There was no way he would let John see him in any pain. He would just keep him from going on the next hunt. And Dean needed this. He needed the distraction.

Dean sat in the truck, staring up at his father's silhouette against the low burning fire. He did that a lot now; stand in the aftermath of a hunt, taking in some time alone. _Wish he would just get over here. Standing still gives me time to think. I don't want to think. I don't want to remember._ Dean rose his hand to his head, slamming his palm into his temple. _STOP!_ He gave a short hiss of pain as he made contact with his cut.

Glancing up, he saw John was still standing by the grave. Slipping his hand into his jacket pocket, Dean fished out his bottle of pills. Glimpsing up again to make sure John wasn't watching, he quickly popped two into his mouth and snapped the lid closed. Returning the bottle to his deep pocket, he stared up at John's figure as it moved down the graveyard. Dean clenched his jaw, settling his aching back into the bucket seat and closed his eyes as he waited for the painkillers to take affect. Dean heard the door squeak open, not bothering to acknowledge his father's presence. He fingered the bottle in his pocket, wishing he had taken an extra to force the effect to work faster.

_Please take me away._

………………………………………………………………………………………………

_God I hate doing inventory._ Stretching her arms above her head, a bookstore owner gave herself a mental pat on the back. Running this store for 30 odd years and she still took monthly inventory. But that's what has to be done when you own the local voodoo store, or at least that's what the smart-mouthed kids call it who assume they can get away with pocketing various herbs or amulets without her knowing.

_I might be a Wicca, but I'm not an idiot._ She smiled to herself as she let herself into the back room. She paused, feeling a slight breeze. Looking around the corner, she let out a good old fashion single worded curse. The backdoor was swinging open, the telltale sign someone had been in the back room who shouldn't have been. And the lock keeping the dark objects from access being broken on the ground was definitely a bad sign.

Quickly, the woman dashed to the bookshelf section. Going across the row, she paused about three quarters in. Her eyes widened. The single worded curse made a reappearance.

A dark book was missing.

……………………………………………

_Author's Note: Intense, I know. I'm thinking this will be a multiple chapter story. Hope you liked it and please hit that review button. It keeps me inspired to know people actually read this. Thanks! Salt and Burn baby._


	2. A Much Deceiving Path

Disclaimer: Check out Chapter One. Heard it's a party.

_Author's Note: Just to put this story into perspective, The Guilty Party and this story are taking place sometime after Shadow, but before Dead Man's Blood. And because of what happened to Sam, I guess this is now AU. But things that are thought and said by Dean in episodes from season 2 will show up… cue the dramatic music. :) This is a long chapter, so hold onto your seats._

**Chapter Two: A Much Deceiving Path**

_Two Weeks Later…_

Dean watched as he swirled the last of his beer in the bottom of the glass. His focus on the liquid was amazing, considering the normal noise level of a bar. Throwing the last of the beer back, Dean leaned into the table, glad to feel slightly off balance because slightly off balance at this point meant a few more drinks and he would be drunk. And drunk meant happy feelings. Whoever coined the phrase 'drowning your sorrows' sure did know his stuff.

Fingering the beer bottles in front of him, Dean sighed. He knew his dad would be arriving at the hotel room at any moment, expecting to find Dean asleep or waiting for him to come home so Dean could describe the hunt. the poltergeist he had gone after was child's play, but he would still want to know. And John would want to describe his clean up of a highway stalker, something neither one had specifically dealt with before. The hunts had been found practically at the same time, both of the men having taken up research duty. Both jobs were easy; either hunter could have taken them. That's why they decided to separate. No sense in letting more people get hurt by ignoring one job to do another.

At least that's what Dean said. And John had agreed without argument. But both knew they needed some time apart. They needed to be able to let go for a little while without worrying about the other walking in. They needed to deal privately.

Dean gave a half hearted laugh. _Yeah, deal._ Well, this is how he was dealing. He was finally off the pain medication for his back and could now drink his heart away. At least that was the plan for tonight. _I'm thinking Titanic depth would be about right._ Without thinking, Dean curled his fingers around the leather sachet in his pocket, squeezing it gently. It was practically second nature now to squeeze the bag, giving himself a small jolt of… well, junkies might call it a fix. Dean allowed himself a half smile and a small snort of laughter. _Yup, dealing has commenced. Drivers, start your engines. Just don't crash. _

Dean slowly pulled his empty hand out of his pocket and lifted his head as he felt a presence stop in front of his table, his hunter instincts kicking in. His mouth fell open a little as John slid into the chair across from him. But the icing on the cake was the beer and two shot glasses he had in his hands. Dean stared at his father, waiting for the disappointing head shake, the 'why are you doing this' look, the 'why the hell weren't you at the hotel' stare, or any of the other dozen looks he had been getting over the past few months. But John just sat there, staring calmly.

"Hunt go alright?" Dean nodded. "Good." With that, John slid one of the shot glasses over. He grasped the other, raised it and waited. After a slight hesitation and a highly raised eyebrow, Dean grabbed the other and raised his, clicking the two together. As one, they threw the shots back, enjoying the burn down their throats.

Dean stared at John, watched as he had a sip from the bottle while surveying the room.

"Hey Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Christo."

John gave out a laugh. Nodding his head, he leaned forward. "Yeah, I know Dean. But sometimes, a man just needs to have a few drinks with his kid."

"Okay." Dean turned his head slightly, assessing his father, not completely convinced he wasn't possessed.

A half hour later found the Winchesters standing around a pool table, sticks in hand. A few other bar patrons had experienced the Winchester's game of pool and had wisely walked away before losing all their money. That left the two men to play each other.

Dean let out a loose groan as his father sunk yet another ball into a pocket, quickly following it with the black 8. John merely smiled up, his son's drunken face of defeat not going unnoticed.

"You couldn't let me even get in one shot, could you?"

John gave a light shrug and smiled. He grabbed his beer and threw back a gulp as Dean racked the balls up again. "Sorry dude. I guess I forgot how good I was."

Dean snorted with laughter. "You're not that good. I've had much better."

The older man rolled his eyes at the innuendo. _Did that kid ever use his upstairs brain? _"Hey, don't forget who taught you how to play, buddy. And I can still wipe the floor with your butt." John wagged his finger at Dean playfully. "Respect your elders."

"You wanna bet, old man?" Dean paused, staring at his father with a blatant face of disbelief. "You couldn't wipe the floor with me if I was a mop. You probably haven't even wrestled with anything since I was 10. You got that elder bit right though. You'd probably crack your hip when you throw a punch."

"Ooohhhh, is that a challenge?" John strutted around the table, chest puffed out in play. His shit eating grin faltered as Dean tossed his stick onto the newly racked balls. Without another word, the young hunter grabbed his coat and walked out the door, the alcohol in his system making him stumble slightly.

"Dean?" John called out, quickly dropping his own stick. Throwing a few bills onto the bar, he pushed through the quickly closing door. He found Dean stalking toward the parking lot, seemingly oblivious to his father's yells. John closed the distance between the two within a few seconds, his temper flaring slightly. "Dean, what the hell are you doing?"

The boy whipped around, his arms bouncing slightly. "Let's go." He dropped his coat and began to jump up and down, loosening his shoulders.

John froze, giving a 'wtf' face. "Let's go what?" He stared at Dean jumping up and down for a few seconds. "You want to fill me in on why you're playing jump rope without the rope?"

Dean beckoned with his hand, still jumping. "Come on. Put your money where your mouth is. Prove me wrong. Make me see the light." He rambled on, his eyes eerily bright, but John was no longer listening.

Realization hit the older man like a ton of bricks. Slowly he shook his head and took a step toward his son, making Dean stand still. It was then he realized Dean had led him to a dirt area, clear of cars, rocks, and anything that might hinder or injure in a fight. "Dean, I'm not going to fight you."

"What, you don't think you could take me?" Dean jutted out his jaw, his grin gone. "I don't think we have ever sparred, Dad. Not in my entire life. I wanna see what you got."

John shook his head again. He stared into Dean's eyes, trying to make him see reason through the drunkenness. "No." With that, he bent down and grabbed Dean's coat. Turning quickly, he began to stalk toward his truck.

"You practically forced me to spar every day with Sammy." John froze at his son's name. He paused and turned slowly. Dean stood in the same place, breathing heavily. His anger was seeping out of his eyes. "You made me hit him, Dad! Why won't you stand up and take one in the face? Are you really that weak?" Dean's body trembled, knowing he was crossing a line. "You just wanted me to beat Sam up. To knock the innocence out of him. Well, I think I did a great job, Dad. I beat him so hard, he never disobeyed. He was such a good little soldier he got his head smashed into the side of a truck because he wouldn't stop me from driving!"

Dean's head whipped to the side, his jaw oddly aching. John lowered his fist and shook out the tingle of contact. He took an unstable breath. Dean lifted his head, his eyes now clear of the hazy drunkenness from earlier. A mixture of emotions flew across his face, making John step forward.

"Dean, I'm s-" John felt pain blossom across his own cheek. Dean's eyes widened as he realized what he had just done. _Fuck, I just sucker punched my old man._ John raised his head, his eyes alone making Dean take a step back, falling into defensive stance. John stared at him, his face set in determination.

"Alright Dean. You want to fight me, fight." John threw his son's coat onto the ground. "Just don't hold back." He growled as he stepped forward to meet his son's fist.

John Winchester was a lot of things in his lifetime. A Marine, a friend, a husband, an only father. His life had taken a sharp turn when he had met Mary. Gone was the stern faced man who enjoyed going to bars during time off and picking up a woman for a night of 'slam, bam, thank you ma'am'. Fatherhood had, as much as he hated to admit it, softened him. He was lucky his serving term was coming to an end when he heard Mary was pregnant. From that day on, he knew he would not be serving again. He would not leave his family. The day Dean was born, he held his son and made him a promise he would never hurt him; he would never cause a tear or a pain in his son's life; he would never be cold.

His promises were broken the day Mary died. John knew he was turning into stone as he lost his ignorance about the world around him. He knew that every hunt caused Dean and Sam pain, more often than not being of the physical variety. But thru the years, John had defended his choices to himself, reminding himself he was not causing those bruises. The pissed off poltergeist caused the cracked rib, or the water siren filled their lungs with water. Never had he laid a finger on one of his boys. Tonight, John's final promise was broken.

John had to admit, even when drunk and pissed off, Dean was a hell of a fighter. John played the offense, allowing his son to block his patterned punches and kicks meant to throw his son off. He got a few good punches past him too, much to John's pleasure. _Maybe he's the one getting soft. Or maybe not._ A quick jab into John's abdomen broke his pattern, effectively making the older hunter double over, but smartly back away to avoid his head getting kicked off. His eyes widened as he watched his son come forward, all the sadness from the last five months gone from his eyes and replaced with harsh ferocity.

Dean saw his father leaning over, holding his stomach as he strode toward him. It was a rare thing for Dean to get so angry he could feel himself loose control. But now he was seeing red; nothing mattered more than kicking the crap out of his old man, to teach him a lesson. Dean looked down, realizing he was now straddling his father's chest _–how the hell did I get here?-_, trying to get past John's forearms to hit his face. He could feel the rage building in his chest, spurting out his mouth.

No one was more surprised than John when he realized he was only just barely stopping his son from beating the crap out of him. He could feel the bruises already forming on his arms; the only thing keeping John from losing his pretty looks. A faint whisper caught his ear, making him realize Dean was muttering as he threw his punches. A moment later he could hear the words repeating over and over. They made him colder than hitting his son ever would.

"I need him… you left me… I can't… we need him… you killed him…" John's arms went limp as he stopped blocking the punches, his eyes wide in shock as he realized how close to gone the boy was. He reached up, grappling for his son's wrists.

"Dean! Stop it!" He felt Dean's arms slip between his fingers as the punches faded into wild flailing. John realized his son wasn't listening to anything now. With a quick jerk of his hips, John threw Dean off his chest and rolled, now on top of the hunter. Pinning his arms above his head, John leaned down to Dean's face, now streaked in dirt and tears.

"Dean! He's not coming back!" Dean's breath hitched as he suddenly froze, his words caught in his throat. He stared up at John, his eyes slowly brimming over with tears. His breath came out in gasps. As he realized what he had just done, Dean turned his head with a sob, the tears dripping into the dirt.

John felt his son's muscles relax, his arms folding against his chest. Slowly, the hunter released his hands, frowning at the shadow of bruises already forming on Dean's wrists and cheek. He lifted his leg, pulling himself off his son's chest, but still did not get up off the ground. He sat, massaging his stomach where he was sure an equally purple bruise was growing.

"You okay?"

John glanced to his side, watching as Dean nodded and pulled himself up to sit.

"Son, we have to talk."

"Okay." Dean whispered, his voice trembling slightly, all fight out of him.

"Sam's gone." Dean gave a small nod. "You did not kill him. He… he died of natural means." Another nod. "Sam wouldn't want to see you like this."

"Don't you dare say what he would want." Dean spat out. John raised his eyebrows. "You didn't spend the last year with him on hunts. You didn't help him when his visions attacked his head. You didn't… you didn't see his eyes after the crash." Dean paused, hanging his head down into his lap, trying to hold back the tears that were already flowing. "They… they were dull."

"I didn't know you saw him." Dean lifted his head to find his father staring at him gently. "The doctors told me you were pulled from the crash unconscious. Son, I would have done anything to keep you from seeing that." Dean nodded, staring ahead at the few people exiting the bar. "I know you aren't dealing. But you have to or it's going to kill you."

"Dad, this is getting pretty chicky."

"Screw it, Dean. I'd rather be a woman than let you fester anymore." Dean gave a surprised look to his side, deciding any comeback would never be better than that sentence. "I just need to know. I need to know that you will talk to me. Keeping all this bottled up… it's... I don't… I don't want you to become what I became when your mother died." John gave a sad smile. "I don't want you to be stone."

"Come again?"

"Never mind." John cleared this throat, glaring at the people standing in the lot who were drunkenly staring at the two men sitting in the dirt, crying. "So we're clear? You talk to me, got it?"

"Yes, sir." Dean nodded. John gave a return nod. Grunting against the pain in his body, he stood, gently pulling Dean to his feet. Limping to the truck, the two men remained silent, wrapped in their private thoughts.

…………………………………………….

A dark figure sat in a room, surrounded by darkness. In his lap he had a book, which he would flip a page of every few minutes after reading every word in detail. Despite having no light, the figure could read everything from the dark magic book, as if the words themselves were glowing. And glowing was exactly what they were doing. The odd wavy green would have been mesmerizing except the figure was used to it by now. This was not the first night he had sat, absorbing the reading for hours on end. But tonight his reading would end. The figure sat up, gripping the book tightly as his eyes gave a wild glow unrelated to the word's light. He read the page again, double checking his translations and breathing deeply as he confirmed it. At last he had found it. He found the spell that would solve everything.

……………………………………………………………………………………………...

_So, do you like? Have enough angst for you? Believe me, I don't usually write Dean angst (Sam is my angst!boy), so I'm trying my best with making him broody, but still Dean. Let me know what you think. The next chapter is already written, so it will be up in a few days, as long as FanFiction stays demon free. Salt and Burn, Baby!_


	3. History Is the Future

**Death Becomes Him**

Disclaimer: Come on. If I owned Supernatural, I would be writing the episodes, not fan fiction.

_Author's Note: So sorry this has taken so long to update. I really like this story and I know where it's going, so I'm going to try to get it all up before this season is over. And now that I actually have time on my hands, I'll do my darnest to do so. So hang on and don't forget to review, cause it is my beer and chocolate. Ummm… yeah, I need 'em. Enjoy!_

Chapter 3: History is the Future

The truck rumbled to a stop, pulling into the hotel parking lot. John twisted the key, turning the engine off. Looking into the front windshield, he stared into the motel room he and Dean were currently calling home.

John could see Dean thru the window. He was sitting with the laptop in front of him, apparently completely wrapped up in whatever he was doing to even notice being watched.

John sighed. _Gonna have to give him a talking to. He's getting lazy._ No, not lazy. Depressed. Dean has lost something. That spark that he had always had when he was hunting. What had made him as good as he had been. He lost his Sam.

………………………………………

"Chow time!" John called out as he opened the front door. He paused, watching Dean stare back at him. John hadn't missed Dean's reaction. Him jumping, the flurry of key pushing followed by a face as guilty as OJ's. Neither man moved, both afraid to speak, both aware the other had seen. John decided to make the first move.

"What'cha doin' there?"

"Nothing" Dean replied, a bit too quickly.

"That's something alright." John moved to the beds, placing the food bags on the top sheet. "Dean, don't lie to me. What do you have there?"

"Internet porn" Dean said, his face completely straight. "You went out, I figured I could enjoy some alone time. You should check out the site. Nice double Ds."

"Couldn't have been much fun with your pants zipped up."

Dean's jaw ticked, the only response he gave. "Now are you going to show me what you've been working on for the last ten minutes while I've been sitting out in the parking lot watching you? Or am I going to have to show myself?"

Dean's breath stopped, his eyes widened slightly. In Winchester language, you never let Dad show himself the mess you made. Owning up, even if it was bad, guaranteed a punishment that wasn't as harsh. Dean sighed in defeat. He pulled the laptop closer to him as John sat across the table. He pushed a few keys and spun the laptop around to face his dad.

John grasped the laptop, letting his eyes skim he page before settling on a single name. Samuel Winchester. John looked up, his face still as stone.

"Dean, this is the investigation report." Dean nodded. "Sammy's report." Another nod. "You broke into police records?" A third nod, accompanied with a raspy voice.

"He… he showed me a few tricks. In case I had to do something without him here." Dean gave a small smile, which fell away almost before it was formed. "You know computers today. System's complicated. And he was always the geek boy." Dean finished with a whisper. _Almost five months now and I still have trouble getting his name out. When won't I feel like a traitor every time I try to say his name aloud? Soon, I know. Always soon. Fucking healing should go faster._

"Dean." His father's voice snapped Dean back to reality. "Why were you looking at the report?"

Dean lowered his head and picked at his jeans. This was not how he wanted to tell his dad. "I ummm… I never knew his name."

"What?" Whose name?" John asked, confused and completely caught off guard.

"The truck driver. The one who killed… him. I wanted to know his name. where he lives. If… if he's living his life. If he has moved on." Dean lowered his head, staring in his hands clasped in his lap.

John leaned back into the chair, letting his breath out. He slowly wiped his face with his hand, gathering his thoughts.

"So what is it? What's his name?"

"Brian Carter." Dean glanced up, waiting for a reaction.

"Dean." John leaned toward his son, placing his arms on the table. "Why would you think you had to hide this from me?"

The young man shrugged. "Cause it was stupid. And wouldn't change anything. It was… it was just something I had to find out." Dean raised his head, his eyes shinning slightly. "I'm trying, dad. I'm trying real hard. But I don't know how much longer I can feel like this."

"Dean? What do you mean?"

Dean shook his head, his mouth twitching in what could be a half smile. "No, Dad. I'm not talking about killing myself. It's just… I have to move on, don't I?" Dean turned his eyes to the laptop, where Sam's picture stood smiling between the two men. Slipping his hand into his pant pocket, he gave the small bag a squeeze. "Sam would want me to be happy, right?"

John nodded, his jaw too tight to even try talking. This was it. This was the moment he had been waiting for. His son was going to be okay.

A few hours later found the two men lying calmly on their respective beds, bellies filled with food. John flipped lazily thru the channels, not taking in what the screen was showing. Glancing over to the other bed, he smiled as the sight of Dean's head resting calmly on his pillow, his eyes closed in sleep. The laptop, which had been perched on his lap, had leaned off to the side. John reached over and grasped the laptop, pulling it slowly off his sleeping son. _Might as well find our next hunt if I'm not sleeping._

John jiggled the touchpad a bit, waiting for it to come out of sleep mode. He couldn't help but stare at Dean. The peaceful nights were rare and far between, but when they came, John felt happiness wash over him.

Clicking on the search browser, John decided to use a site he had used in the past. It was reliable and usually gave the most updated facts. John made a few clicks, waiting for the usual site to pop up. His mouth turned to a frown as an error message appeared. A couple more clicks and typing gave him no answers. The hunter shook his head. _No way. Dean wouldn't have… he wouldn't have a reason. Unless…_

John cursed. He flipped open his phone, scrolling down the names until he found the one he wanted and pressed send. While waiting for the pick-up, John cursed once again. He had waited too long. Dean had lied. There had been more. Finally he heard a click and a muffled hello.

"Joshua, I need a favor. Yeah, I know it's too early for anything of the non-evil variety to be awake, but listen up. I got a computer and the work history has been wiped out. And I mean completely wiped, beyond my skills. Can you fix it?" John waited a moment, nodded, and glanced at his sleeping son, seeing him in a new light. His peaceful slumber was for a different reason. "Good. I'm leaving now. I'll be there by late afternoon."

………………………………………….

The dark figure stood by the window of the motel. The sun would be rising in a few hours. Most of the items needed had already been gathered. That just left one ingredient left. He smiled in the dark, watching as John Winchester placed his bag in his truck and sped off, leaving his son slumbering in the room. _Finally. _The figure smiled._ Now I can get to work._

………………………………………….

_Author's Note: Interesting enough? It's slowly moving along. And it was a bit short, I know. But either the next chapter or the chapter after that will have a big reveal and then the story will just keep rolling. So keep checking for updates cause apparently, the alarms are down. Please review cause it makes me inspired. Salt and Burn, Baby!_


End file.
